


Ode to a Nightingale

by CricketFox



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Poetry, Snogging, Sofa cuddles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 10:46:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CricketFox/pseuds/CricketFox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You would say that.” Sherlock said softly as he nosed John’s neck. “Although, I can think of something much more beautiful.”<br/>“And what would that be?”<br/>“My dear John, can you not deduce?”</p>
<p>Sherlock wakes John up with a poem. LOTS OF FLUFF. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. *flies away into the night*</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ode to a Nightingale

**Author's Note:**

> There is a link here in the work, COPY AND PASTE IT INTO A NEW TAB/BROWSER WHEN YOU GET TO IT. I promise you will not regret it >:3
> 
> This is not only my first Sherlock Fanfiction, it is my first slash fiction!! A big thanks to willtherealpleasestandup and definitelyafangirl on Tumblr for being the BEST BETAS EVER! They were exceedingly helpful and positive and just UGH. I can't love/thank them enough! So you should go like them on tumblr and stuff :D Share the love!

John dozed on the sofa, a forgotten book splayed on his chest. It shifted a little as he took a deeper breath, his arm sliding off the sofa, letting his fingers just brush the cool wood floor. The temperature change from the floor bolted through his arm and he shifted away with a sleepy sigh.

Sherlock couldn’t help but roll his eyes at John’s sleeping form. The sofa would give him a crick in his neck and Sherlock would have to hear all about it the next day. If the doctor was so tired, why hadn’t he gone upstairs to bed? Although, Sherlock had to admit there was something sweet about watching John there on the sofa, sleeping peacefully. His brow wasn’t furrowed, his soft lips relaxed, almost in a smile; Sherlock really enjoyed those lips when John let him, but three in the morning was not a time John liked to be woken up and kissed. In these cases he usually sent the detective back to sleep, but Sherlock would, as always, persist until John gave in. Once the detective was satisfied, then would he relent to his lover’s wishes and they would go to sleep.

He was still dazed at the fact that he had found such companionship in John. Patient, lovely John. Sherlock asked for a lot, and John readily gave it to him. The doctor was always there whenever Sherlock asked, albeit sometimes with whining. John would handle the irritating paperwork, deal with Donovan and Anderson, and other tedious ‘necessities’ that Lestrade required during a case.

When their relationship turned physical last year, Sherlock’s world had changed. He had suspected in the beginning that John had some sort of attraction to him, but he had never expected John to act on it. And the doctor hadn’t, not for many years. Not until after Sherlock’s fall. When, after a year and a half of playing dead and destroying Moriarty’s web, Sherlock had revealed himself to the doctor. Sherlock had been welcomed home with a punch in the face and then an exhilarating snog. Afterwards, John had felt badly about the cut on Sherlock’s cheek and cleaned him up. The rest of the night they spent together, curled up in John’s bed, keeping warm under the queen-sized comforter that felt like cloud.

Sherlock stood up from his seat at the window where he had been reading a book of his own. He walked over to John and laid the aged book down on the coffee table. He reached out, and his long, delicate fingers brushed gently through John’s hair.

“John, you’re going to get a sore neck. Wake up.” Sherlock picked the book up off of John’s chest as the doctor stirred, his eyes heavy with sleep.

“Sh’rlock?” John rubbed his face and yawned. “What time is it?”

“About half past nine.” A smile twitched on Sherlock’s mouth, despite himself. John groaned and threw his arm over his eyes in rebellion.

“I was having a good dream.” He yawned again and sat up, giving Sherlock a small smile. “Too bad I didn’t get to finish it.” Sherlock raised a curious eyebrow.

“Oh? What dream could be so wonderful that you regret to leave it?”John didn’t answer him, just tugged Sherlock’s deep purple sleeve and made him join John on the sofa.

“Can’t you deduce?”  John let go of Sherlock’s sleeve and gently pulled the detective forward to give him a soft kiss.

“I see…” Sherlock whispered across John’s lips, and then pulled the doctor even closer.  John’s fingers curled themselves into Sherlock’s hair, lightly tugging his curls and making Sherlock moan quietly. They soon became entangled limbs on the sofa, having their very own snog fest with no case, experiments, or criminals to disturb them.

Eventually they came up for air, John lying on top of Sherlock, his head on the detective’s chest. Sherlock’s spindly arms encircled John, one of his hands coming back up to card through the doctor’s hair. It was comfortable, too comfortable to move, even. Absently, John pulled the blanket off the back of the sofa and laid it on top of them to fend off the chilly air of the flat.

“This is… Nice…” Sherlock’s voice was quiet and John chuckled quietly.

“Better than boring.” John said, playing with the cuff of Sherlock’s sleeve. He loved that shirt in all its purple glory. Sherlock looked good in just about anything, but that shirt was the best of all. Sherlock grunted and it almost could have been passed off as a small laugh.

“Mmm… yes. Although I did put down a good poem to wake you up.” Sherlock smiled.

“You didn’t have to wake me, you git.” John rolled his eyes.

“I wanted to.” Sherlock laid a small kiss on John’s head, causing John to make that sweet sound that he made whenever Sherlock showed such simple affection.

“What was the poem?”

“ _Ode to a Nightingale_. John Keats.”

“Mmm, sounds lovely.” John shifted to look up at Sherlock, a smile tugging at his lips. “Will you read it to me?” Sherlock was a little surprised, John had never asked such a thing of Sherlock, but the detective found himself wanting to fulfill his doctor’s wish. He smiled a little.

“Alright.”  Sherlock reached out to the coffee table and picked up the book, he opened up to _Ode to a Nightingale_.

([http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TdphtMWjies&list=FLTY_cec4wVl7KpQl0e_Z07g](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TdphtMWjies&list=FLTY_cec4wVl7KpQl0e_Z07g))

_“My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains_  
  
 _My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,_  
  
 _Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains_  
  
 _One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:_  
  
 _'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,_  
  
 _But being too happy in thine happiness,—_  
  
 _That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees_  
  
 _In some melodious plot_  
  
 _Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,_  
  
 _Singest of summer in full-throated ease._

 

_O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been_

_Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,_

_Tasting of Flora and the country green,_

_Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!_

_O for a beaker full of the warm South,_

_Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,_

_With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,_

_And purple-stained mouth;_

_That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,_

_And with thee fade away into the forest dim:”_

 

John’s heart fluttered at the sound of Sherlock’s voice, so mournful and sweet.Poetry seemed to be one of the only things that Sherlock allowed emotion into his voice. John bit his lip, and listened as the detective swirled his fingers through his doctor’s hair. John didn’t want this moment to end.

 

_“Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget_

_What thou among the leaves hast never known,_

_The weariness, the fever, and the fret_

_Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;_

_Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,_

_Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;_

_Where but to think is to be full of sorrow_

_And leaden-eyed despairs,_

_Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,_

_Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow._

 

_Away! away! for I will fly to thee,_

_Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,_

_But on the viewless wings of Poesy,_

_Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:_

_Already with thee! tender is the night,_

_And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,_

_Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;_

_But here there is no light,_

_Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown_

_Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways._

 

_I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,_

_Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,_

_But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet_

_Wherewith the seasonable month endows_

_The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;_

_White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;_

_Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;_

_And mid-May's eldest child,_

_The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,_

_The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.”_

 

Sherlock’s soft voice was soothing, and John found himself slowly falling asleep against the detective’s chest. He was eager to hear more, and refused to let sleep take him over as of yet. Sherlock turned the page skillfully with his right hand, his left still sifting through John’s hair.

John looked up into Sherlock’s eyes; the chilling blue was now warm and welcoming. Sherlock Holmes, the man that once wanted to be a pirate, found heart in poetry and it manifested in his eyes.

 

_“Darkling I listen; and, for many a time_

_I have been half in love with easeful Death,_

_Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,_

_To take into the air my quiet breath;_

_Now more than ever seems it rich to die,_

_To cease upon the midnight with no pain,_

_While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad_

_In such an ecstasy!_

_Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain—_

_To thy high requiem become a sod._

 

_Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!_

_No hungry generations tread thee down;_

_The voice I hear this passing night was heard_

_In ancient days by emperor and clown:_

_Perhaps the self-same song that found a path_

_Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,_

_She stood in tears amid the alien corn;_

_The same that oft-times hath_

_Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam_

_Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn._

 

_Forlorn! the very word is like a bell_

_To toll me back from thee to my sole self!_

_Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well_

_As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf._

_Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades_

_Past the near meadows, over the still stream,_

_Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep_

_In the next valley-glades:_

_Was it a vision, or a waking dream?_

_Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?”_

When Sherlock finished, he put the book down to see John’s face staring at him in awe.

“That was beautiful Sherlock.” John shifted up and kissed Sherlock sweetly. The detective grinned and pulled his doctor close.

“You would say that.” Sherlock said softly as he nosed John’s neck. “Although, I can think of something much more beautiful.” He sat up, keeping the smaller man on his lap. John shifted with Sherlock’s movements easily, and raised his hand to rest on Sherlock’s cheek.

“And what would that be?”

“My dear John, can you not deduce?”


End file.
